


A Perfect Balance of Things

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, no update schedule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Obi-Wan comes to Bandomeer, where he's taken under the wing of the Master overseeing the local AgriCorps and holding the whole sector together almost by sheer bloodymindedness and effort of will.





	1. On the Sea Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [davaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Patrician with Mud on His Boots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837758) by [davaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/pseuds/davaia). 



> Hello! 
> 
> To avoid any potential disappointment, I am going to say this right now, from the very start: 
> 
> I have no update schedule for this work. I may continue at some point, but I do not have a set plan from here to the end, either. This is going to be, in all likelihood, an unfinished one-shot, ~~though I have some ideas for later scenes.~~
> 
> I am posting it in unfinished form against my usual policy because I'm doing a tumblr backup, and because it'll probably be easier to find for anyone who wishes to reread it at their leisure. And I have a soft spot for it. 
> 
> Frankenfic (silent enim leges inter arma) is still my primary, and after that the AU's just get right in line.

He feels… nice. Warm and hazy, and dry for once. His head hurts, but not so much as to be unbearable. Obi-Wan could almost believe he’s back in the Temple’s Halls of Healing, but for the fact that the ward had never felt like this. It’s peaceful, yes. But the air is cool and fresh on his face, and it smells like rain and green things. 

Obi-Wan lets himself float free on quiet Force ripples, slow and soft like rain, revels in the humid breeze, in the soft sound of rain. 

He doesn’t remember much about how he got here. He remembers the mine, Guerra the Phindian. He remembers being thrown from the mining platform, to find the Guerra really had meant to help him, though at that point it had been entirely unclear how they’d ever get back to land from the outpost in the middle of the ocean. They were both exhausted beyond belief already—after weeks of hard labour with little food, swimming miles of choppy, cold grey ocean water was as much a death sentence as being thrown overboard. 

More surprising, though, was the arrival of a tall Jedi Master. He’d had taken them both back to the mainland. Guerra had bailed at the first sign of trouble, unsurprisingly, but even Obi-Wan couldn’t blame the Phindian. He, too, would have preferred to avoid du Crion’s particular brand of trouble. Being locked in a mine with a sabotaged ventilation system, slowly suffocating on noxious gases—and set to explode for good measure—none of that had fit into Obi-Wan’s understanding of AgriCorps workdays. At least he’d remembered about the ionite. 

Then there was the Jedi. The man who’d given Obi-Wan an utterly horrified look when he offered to open the door with the slave collar. He’d forced the door, disabled the bomb with Obi-Wan’s assistance, then wrapped Obi-Wan in his thick robe and carried him out of the mines. 

And to think, standing on the edge of that platform only hours before, Obi-Wan hadn’t thought that anyone would come looking for him. 

Now, even the weight of the collar around his neck was missing. 

“What sort of Master would I be, if I lost track of my young ones, hm?” a soft, deep voice asks him. 

Obi-Wan shifts, his limbs uncomfortably heavy and uncooperative. He turns his head, and finds the same Jedi Master, peering over his datapad at Obi-Wan with a glimmer in his eye. 

Amusement curls warm and playful in the Force currents around Obi-Wan, and he begins to wonder if he’s totally lost his mind, along with his mobility. _Wouldn’t be unlike anyone else,_ he thinks to himself, in answer to the man’s mirthful (if obviously rhetorical) question. 

The tall Jedi sobers quickly. “Then that is your first lesson, young one,” he says gently, and not at all unkindly. “I’m not merely ‘anyone else’.” 

There is a fractional hesitation in which Obi-Wan’s sluggish brain manages to wonder who it is that he’s talking to. Then comes the answer, as though the man had heard his question: “I am Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Right. The Jedi Master overseeing this outpost. Or was it this whole sector? Obi-Wan can’t really remember. 

The moment hangs in silence between them, heavy with some sort of meaning Obi-Wan can’t fathom. “Shields,” he says, or tries to. It comes out as not much more than a dry and reedy rasp. 

The Master only smiles. “It’s all right, little Padawan. You’re on some very good drugs.” 

Obi-Wan frowns back at him. What would he be doing on Bandomeer if he were someone’s Padawan? “M’not a Padawan.” 

_Not little,_ he wants to add. Not because he isn’t, though. It’s just the principle of the thing. 

Qui-Gon’s smile hovers between troubled and helplessly charmed. That’s nice, that he finds Obi-Wan charming. At least there’s someone on this rock who doesn’t seem to dislike him, or doesn’t care about him at all. 

Well, that is definitely a troubled look on the Master’s face now. Obi-Wan shrinks back a little guiltily, realising—yet again belatedly—that his shields are alarmingly low, perhaps even nonexistent. 

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “Hush now, don’t fret about that. Tell me, Little One, what happened to your Master?”

Obi-Wan curls into himself tighter. “They didn’t want me at the Temple, so they sent me here.” A washed out Initiate whom nobody wanted. That’s all he is, in the end. Might even have died in that mine, were it not for Master Jinn keeping watch for all his little ducklings. 

“You’re not thirteen yet,” Jinn says softly, and there’s something broken in his voice, and endlessly gentle. 

Obi-Wan finally realises, then, that the nice feeling lulling him back to sleep is the Master’s hand in his hair, carding gentle fingers through it and scratching lightly at his scalp. He can’t help but reflexively arch into it. “No,” he says, though it probably sounds more like pleased little whimper. 

Master Jinn sighs. “Sleep, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to sleep: he doesn’t want to miss a second of this, of the hand in his hair, the warmth of the—decidedly _not_ medical issue—nest of blankets pressed around him, the smell of sea-salt and tea and cool, fresh air on his face. The Master sighs and leans in closer, still running fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair and humming a tune just a touch off-key. Alderaanian, Obi-Wan thinks, his mind hovering just on the edge of remembering the words. 

All of it lulls him back to sleep, and he has barely anything to fight it with. 

 

* * *

 

 

Qui-Gon Jinn barely remembers arriving on Bandomeer. He remembers very little of what happened after Telos, actually. The only thing that matters in any tangible, significant way is that he’d failed his Padawan, and Xan—Xan, his beautiful, clever, mischievous imp of a Padawan, had turned into something wild and desperate and Dark. 

Qui-Gon still thinks about the years of training clamouring in his ears in that moment—the moment his Padawan took Crion’s broken ring from the flames and pressed the searing-hot metal to his cheek. His training, from crèche tales to galactic history to archived scripts and treatises on philosophy, all of it demanded the Fallen be killed. But it was _Xan_ standing in front of him, with desperate rage and sheer desolation in his eyes. 

Qui-Gon could never kill his Padawan. He does not know how anyone could ask it of a Master. Perhaps the broken look in Xanatos’s eyes, too, had begged for it, he now thinks. A cold shudder creeps down his spine at the very idea, but… 

It doesn’t absolve him, and it never will. In his dreams and on his worst nights, Qui-Gon faces a Dark and twisted thing that bears the likeness of his Padawan but is not him—is even less like him than the Xanatos he faced on Telos that day—and _still,_ he cannot bring himself to kill it. But the memory of the look in those brilliant night-blue eyes, it whispers to Qui-Gon now of something else. As though Xanatos found himself in the role of an unwilling observer, unable to regain control. 

Coercion. Control. 

Impossible. Qui-Gon sensed no other Force presence on Telos, knew of no one who could be capable of pushing past Xan’s shields and tearing away his control. 

Or is it just improbable? 

Qui-Gon has come close, several times, to the uncharitable thought that Master Yoda had knowingly sent Xanatos to Telos to Fall. He always cuts it off quickly. _That isn’t fair,_ Qui-Gon tells himself. Master Yoda had only ever mentioned a potential; there was the possibility that Xanatos might Fall, but never a certainty. Yet the Grandmaster had known, and he’d been fairly certain that the potential had something to do with Telos… 

How could it be that there was no way to prevent Xanatos from suffering such a fate? Qui-Gon still asks himself that question time and again, desperately struggling to wrap his head around it. If Yoda was so concerned over Xan’s attachment to Telos, he should never have sent the boy into the hands of a father Xan would never impress. A man who would only express his—empty, unsatisfying—approval for his son so long as he could use him. 

And use him, Crion did. He used Xan’s brilliance, his diplomatic training, Xan’s carefully cultivated political and corporate connections, and even the shadier, criminal sort. In his lowest and darkest moments, Qui-Gon had never hated his Padawan; but he’d indulged in the feeling more than once when it came to Crion, and never with greater satisfaction than when he’d discovered that Crion had exploited Xan’s ability to bend minds. 

It’s easier to say it now, with the wisdom of years past. Qui-Gon hadn’t known the full extent of Xan’s need to impress Crion, to show his father that he was worthy of the family name. Qui-Gon had been fully aware of what sort of person Crion was, though, and had put a great deal of effort into keeping him away from his Padawan. In retrospect, Qui-Gon had catastrophically underestimated his Padawan’s attachment—not to his father, but to the _idea_ of him. Surely that could have been dealt with, at least mitigated, before sending the boy to his Trials? 

Ten years ago, Qui-Gon would have blamed himself for not thinking of it. Now, he watches over a sleeping Initiate in a quiet ward in the Ag center, and wonders yet again at his Grandmaster’s choices. 

 


	2. Green Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet bit of meditation among tea plants is good for the soul.

When Obi-Wan wakes again, he wakes to a cool sea-salt breeze. It’s bewildering. He wonders where he is on the mining platform that there would be a refreshing breeze, where someone could sleep wrapped in softness and warmth, rather than a body-chilling, razor-sharp wind and wet spray. It’s too quiet, none of the pained curses he’d been hearing for days, none of the noises of the machinery far below. 

Then Obi-Wan opens his eyes to bright morning light, brighter than anything on the platform, and remembers. He’s in a med ward, and the Twi’lek eyeing him speculatively is the head Healer for Bandomeer’s AgCorps techs and specialists. Her eyes are golden, her skin is ochre-red and freckled, and her smile is sharp and gap-toothed. “Oh good, you’re awake.” 

Obi-Wan swallows, or tries to, only to discover that his throat is dry as dust. This discovery sets off a horrible wracking coughing fit and leaves him with an aching head, ribs, and a startled, worried Healer. 

It’s another day before he’s allowed to leave, and disappointingly, he sleeps through most of it. Girza wakes him for meals—or attempts at them, anyway. Once or twice Obi-Wan thinks he can sense Master Jinn, but it’s hard to tell. His control is next to nonexistent, and the Master’s presence is a gentle calm on the fringes of Obi-Wan’s awareness. It’s the sort of serenity Obi-Wan can only dream of ever attaining, and he craves it, stretches for it like one of the plants he was supposed to be tending to here. 

So when he’s finally free to leave the Healer’s care, when Obi-Wan seeks out Qui-Gon Jinn, it’s not only that he has no quarters, no direction, nor any assigned role on Bandomeer. It’s also a craving for the sort of peace he remembers feeling in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, woven together with the unqualified acceptance he’s only ever felt from Jinn. 

When Obi-Wan asks, Girza tells him that he’ll most likely find the Master in the greenhouse gardens, so that is where he goes. 

The greenhouse gardens are beautiful. Most of them house carefully tended tuber plants, species with edible roots and fruits, and some sprawling vines—foodstuffs for the facility, and what had originally served as the progenitor plants for Bandomeer’s revitalised crop. The feel of the place rushes at him as he enters, so full of green and vibrantly bright that Obi-Wan almost can’t breathe; and then he can’t breathe it in enough. 

Qui-Gon is further in the gardens, in one of the most distant sections. When Obi-Wan finally makes it there, his muscles are trembling with exhaustion. He finds himself surrounded by tea plants, the smell of them rich and pleasant. The object of Obi-Wan’s search is sitting in their midst, sunk into the Force around him. Qui-Gon all but glows with it, so much so that Obi-Wan stops, afraid to disturb his peace. 

“Don’t be shy,” Qui-Gon says softly. “Come closer, Little One.”

Obi-Wan starts. Qui-Gon hadn’t even opened his eyes. He stares, but Qui-Gon still doesn’t move, so he inches forward. When the Master doesn’t react, he steels himself and comes yet closer. 

It isn’t until he’s standing right in front of the kneeling Master that Qui-Gon opens his eyes, and smiles at him. “Hello,” he says, very softly, and Obi-Wan’s stomach does something funny. “Meditate with me?”

Really, what else is there to do? “Thank you, Master.” 

Qui-Gon smiles at him and says nothing. Which is just as well, Obi-Wan thinks, chafing just the slightest bit at the fact that Master Jinn still calls him “little”. 

Then again, the man is very tall. Obi-Wan finds that he cannot sustain his irritation, and tries to assure himself that almost everyone is shorter than Master Jinn, and that’s really all there is to it. 

He must be moving too slowly for the Master’s liking, for Jinn reaches for him with one large, warm hand that wraps around his arm and dwarfs it in that single gesture. A gentle nudge turns Obi-Wan around before Jinn tugs him down. Obi-Wan automatically folds his legs under him, nearly collapses in place, and yet Qui-Gon supports him and folds his arms and his robe protectively around Obi-Wan. 

It’s so comforting, so gentle that it’s almost painful, and the last of Obi-Wan’s reserves crumple away at the touch. His head aches, and he is tired, and he would give everything to just give up and let someone else decide his fate for a while. Sure, the last time he’d done that, Obi-Wan had ended up on Bandomeer. But here, wrapped in the presence of this giant of a Jedi, he feels safe enough to _choose_ to do so. Obi-Wan matches his breathing to the rhythm of the chest he’s folded up against, and lets himself sink into the flow of the Force. 

 

* * *

 

But his mind refuses to go still. He finds it frustrating—embarrassing. 

Pressed up against Master Jinn, he can’t help but think again of all his failures. Any second now, the Master will notice, will realise that Obi-Wan never belonged at the Temple, that he’s a washout for good reason— 

A deep rumbling sigh presses the Master’s chest to Obi-Wan’s back, and man bends his head forward, nosing into Obi-Wan’s hair. “Little One.” 

Obi-Wan tenses even more, if that were possible. 

“It’s all right. You’ve not had an easy time of it here, have you?” 

It isn’t really a question. 

“Here.” Large hands slip under Obi-Wan’s, until they’re resting palm to palm. “The Force is all around you here, noisy. Even the Room of a Thousand Fountains isn’t quite like this, is it?” 

No, Obi-Wan thinks to himself, it’s not. The Room is quieter, with the melodic chimes of fountains and small waterfalls in its various corners, and that rather large cascade of water in particular in the far end of it. The pools are clear as crystal, fresh and sweet. 

Bandomeer is nothing like that. The greenhouse dome that they are sitting in now, warm and humid, is all wild, raucous life. 

“Don’t try to shut so much of yourself away, Obi-Wan,” Master Jinn murmurs. “Stretch out, feel…”

The sensation he feels is not quite like being taken by the hand, yet not unlike. Without a bond to connect them, Master Jinn’s mind beckons to him and Obi-Wan follows, slowly gaining awareness—first, of the grass where they sit; then, of the closest tea plants. The scent of each strengthens in his mind, and a quiet happy brush of life returns to him as he reaches out, following the guidance of the Master. 

_See?_ In his mind, Obi-Wan feels Qui-Gon smile. _It’s easier to meditate like this, here,_ the Master tells him. 

And it is. It’s even easier when those large, warm hands gently rub warmth into his arms, and then press carefully into the knotted muscles of his shoulders and his neck. Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure what the Master is doing, but at the end of it, his headache drains away like it had never been there. 

_Thank you,_ he whispers, awed, even as his mind follows the Master’s through the whispering rows of tea plants. 

“Of course, young one,” Qui-Gon murmurs above him. 

When Obi-Wan had first landed on Bandomeer, he’d been cold and miserable and mostly hopeless. His subsequent misadventures certainly hadn’t improved his opinion of the planet. 

But he’s never seen anything like this—rows and rows of little warm lights unfurling, reaching for the sun and welcoming of the Force. They’re all so small and so delicate, and deeply rooted in something unencompassably greater than themselves. It’s a perfect balance of a million million small and fragile things clinging to something unknowably large; it is both breathtaking and beautiful. 

For the first time, there’s a corner of this barren spinning rock in space that feels _right._ It might even feel like home, if he let it. It’s wrapped around him like a warm and sheltering embrace, like a Master’s rough-spun robe smelling of tea; like the serene and rock-steady Force-presence of a Jedi Master showing Obi-Wan his own view of the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that'll be all, for now...

**Author's Note:**

> I can't tag it as abandoned, I like it too much. :|  
> But I won't be working on it with regularity. And I'm going to be feeling a bit guilty about that.


End file.
